Archive for the ‘Dangerously addictive’ Category
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I recommend the Kindle version of this for two reasons.
1. It’s free.
2. You won’t realise how long it is until you start reading, after which it won’t matter because you’ll be hooked. Although the little percent sign at the bottom of the page will stay in demoralisingly low single figures for so long that you might think your device is broken.
There’s a third reason for recommending it. It’s awesome!
It’s not erotic but, on the other hand, it’s hardly decent. At least, it doesn’t seem decent to me that a middle-aged Victorian gentleman (he was just the right side of 50 when he wrote it) should be able to get so effortlessly into the heart and mind of an excitable young maiden in the first flush of youth and dissect her vacillating intentions with the precision of a modern micro surgeon.
How dare he! Yes, and make us love her! And love him too for his audacious charm!
Trollope is sometimes looked down on by arbiters of quality in Victorian fiction. I often hear people apologising for liking him. The trouble with Trollope, you see, is that his books are so hugely enjoyable; and they are without a scar or a blemish so there is nothing for the critics to critique.
Sometimes his works are not even looked on as fiction but as social history. Why? Because his plots are not fanciful. They are robust. And his characters are intensely alive. So when you read him, it is like looking at real life.
Except it isn’t. Everything is much simpler and clearer and funnier than real life because Trollope is so sharp, so witty, so light. He has the driest sense of humour of any Englishman I’ve met and, believe me, I’ve met some very dry Englishmen in my time. Yet you take in every word and nothing is above your head. It just falls into place beautifully.
And there I should end because the book is quite long enough; you don’t want to delay starting it a moment longer.
You know what? I’m going to stick my neck out and give this book five stars. I don’t like the cover and I don’t read a lot of erotic romance but I was attracted to this book by something deeper than the cover or the genre.
I’ve been racking my brains trying to think how to express what it is that I like about this book. I know that I like it but it’s hard to explain.
What I do read a lot of is erotica. And when you read a lot of erotica you start to wonder if something serious is missing from your sex life. I mean, am I the only woman who can have an orgasm without being tied up or vampirized or handcuffed to a toilet in a public bar?
I hate being called vanilla. But the truth is I love vanilla. In fact, chain me up someone, please, because I’m addicted to vanilla ice cream. Vanilla is a very subtle flavour, I find, and very versatile. Vanilla goes with lots of things. Lots of very naughty things.
Vanilla goes very well with hot Tunisian ruins bleached by a scorching sun. It goes splendidly with a sexy, mature American archaeologist who behaves almost as well as an English gentleman.
Of course, if he behaved exactly like an English gentleman there wouldn’t even be any vanilla in the story and Beth would have her tongue hanging out with nothing to lick. But Beth is not disappointed.
I was not disappointed either.
But I was excited in a very comfortable, well-cushioned sort of way. I was able to sink back in my plumped-up pillows and enjoy the vanilla action with complete, languid, unhurried satisfaction.
I like the way Kay Jaybee tells this story. In fact, this isn’t the first Kay Jaybee story I’ve read. I’ve read a few because I like her style.
The stories don’t overreach themselves. They don’t try to shock you or do something that other stories don’t. They do something much cleverer than that. They dig deep. They draw on little things that happen in real life and turn them into very plausible adventures that could happen to you or me. They make me feel connected and turned on.
That’s not something I want to underestimate. After all, just like with those vanilla ice creams, I keep going back for more.
I suppose lacking the voluminous literary heritage of England, Americans tend to latch onto any big book as a possible contender for the Great American Novel that they are always desperately seeking. It helps its chances if the book is also indigestible. That way the Brits are unlikely to read it and challenge its literary supremacy.
Hence, I suppose, the lasting appeal of Moby Dick. Who is going to read it in this day and age? Its supremacy is assured for all time.
I like to plunge into its yawning depths and immerse myself in the great shroud of its frothing prose as an antidote to Twitter. It’s fun to read it in Starbucks, especially now we have freezing fog in London and treacherous ice on the streets. America, what have you given to Britain? You’ve closed all their bookshops thanks to Amazon. You’ve replaced all their pubs with coffee shops. You’ve doomed them to a high street without record shops thanks to Apple and iTunes. You suck up all their spare cash into your great maw and you construct labyrinthine corporate shelters to avoid paying any tax in the UK. It’s genius. What sweet revenge for the all the wrongs inflicted on you by Mad King George.
But you’ve at least given them Moby Dick, a seething epic that teaches them not to go chasing after phantoms and break their necks on a brick wall. Good advice, incidentally, to anyone who feels they ought to read this novel but is put off by its sheer bulk. It is a whale of a book and you chase it down at your peril.
I do wonder where the female characters are. Ishmael clinging to Queequeg’s coffin to avoid a watery doom is about as close as we get to a love story.
But it’s a wicked book. Wicked and wild. I like to think the great white whale is a metaphor for all of us women giving men the run around: the fathomless mask of the unknown but still reasoning vortex at the heart of men’s tragically turbulent universe.
In this anthology there are two stories that include smart, sexy Chinese women, and I like it for that reason alone. There are 14 stories altogether, which is quite a generous number. It’s surprising, then, that they are of a consistently high quality. I did skip one of the stories, I must admit, and I suppose if I were being a conscientious reviewer I’d say which one it was, but it was no big deal, I just didn’t like it. It’s an anthology. It’s okay to skip around.
Talking of skipping around, I first saw this as a paperback in a bookshop in Charing Cross Road and I nearly bought it but I was with a male friend and I didn’t want him to feel threatened by my interest in sex machines.
So I bought a Kindle version. I really wish I’d bought the paperback. An anthology like this shows up the weaknesses of the Kindle. I kept wanting to flick through and dip in and out and I really couldn’t.
The only author I’d heard of before I bought the book was Janine Ashbless. All the others were not only new to me but have really strange names like Elias A. St. James, Essemoh Teepee and Blue Poe Von Page. Unfortunately the Kindle version doesn’t give the author’s name with the story title in the table of contents, so this made it really hard to get familiar with their names and remember who had written what. To make matters worse, the author biographies at the back are in a different order from the stories and don’t give the story titles.
I had to write my own table of contents in the end, which is really geeky, isn’t it? But I suppose someone who can do that would also appreciate a steam-powered anal probe, so you could say this book and I were made for each other.
Like my review, this book should not be taken too seriously. But as a piece of fun, it’s really very stylish indeed.
I was pleasantly impressed by the imagination and the craftsmanship that went into the stories. One story impressed me particularly. It was Lair of the Red Countess by Kathleen Bradean. The writing has a sensuous surface texture and shadowy depths that really got my attention. It isn’t perfect. It is a bit rough in places. But I like its roughness and I like the deft narrative shifts that delve into the backgrounds of both main characters and flesh them out for us. It’s quite a complex little story for all its playfulness, and there is a lot of flesh, as it were, packed into a very tight space.
But the other stories are also very well done and the theme of Carnal Machines is carried through them all with admirable panache. Now that I have my little home-made table of contents, I will definitely use it to look up some of the other writers on my list.
I needed a well-scrubbed, de-cluttered, pristine flat before I could appreciate this fine graphic novel, which had been lying around in a pile of clutter for several months until today.
The author is Bryan Talbot, who was a comic artist with, I am told, a god-like reputation in England at the time he decided to publish this under a pseudonym. It was a departure. But if you are familiar with Bryan Talbot’s work you will know that he doesn’t fit comfortably into any genre and that he likes to take risks and go off at a tangent even within a single work.
This story is very focused, though. I like it a lot. It’s wordless and told in crisp, black and white images that are playful, repetitive and poignant. I found it very moving. It’s the story of a man and a woman whose natures make it impossible for them to be together. Some people might see the story as simplistic but I like the simplicity of it. It strips down the relationship to its essential constituents of erotic need and emotional isolation. Some of it is funny. I laughed out loud on page 52 and my flatmate dashed across the room and started reading over my shoulder. “Let me scan it and post it on Facebook!” she said.
“No, certainly not!,” I cried. “It’s important to protect the artist’s revenue potential! This has not been a big earner for him.”
I read the rest of it in silence in my bedroom, which was most appropriate given what happens on pages 66 and 67. (The 64-page story starts on page 4, by the way.)
I’m intrigued by successful artists and writers who, at the height of their fame, publish quirky little books under a pseudonym. On page 35, in panels 13 and 14, the shadows behind the bridge crossed by the lovers spell HOAX. This hoax may not have made much money for Bryan Talbot, but it has made me want to read more of his work. He’s still alive, I think, so I hope he’ll get a little frisson of pleasure when he gets his next royalty cheque and notices a slight uptick thanks to the largesse of a certain erotically inclined Asian by the name of Vanessa Wu.
This book started out with tremendous promise. That sounds more patronising than I would like. It blew my mind. Is that better? I couldn’t believe I had avoided this author for so long. If you are an avid reader, not reading J.G. Ballard is like depriving yourself of air. Each sentence glitters with intelligence. The rhythm, the poise, the vocabulary, the imagery are all perfect. He has a fine sense of character and there is passion beneath his hard, cynical edge.
But as the book goes along it degenerates. Not because of the language, which continues to be perfect: perfectly judged and perfectly paced. The similes come just as thick and fast as before. The words still glitter. The images still haunt your brain.
But something happens to the credibility. J.G. Ballard is not like other men. He is aloof from ordinary human motivation. His psychology is not quite sane. He has a pathological empathy with weird conditions. He imagines humanity differently from the rest of us.
So I stopped enjoying it. He lays the groundwork for his plot very thoroughly. He is like an advertising man. He is very persuasive and very plausible. But his words are a veneer laid over a corrupt underbelly that failed to convince. The twist at the end also didn’t ring true.
I was disappointed. I was bitterly disappointed. Because when he is good he is breathtakingly good.